Symptoms of a Heartbreak

by Sona Charaipotra

  The professor looks more confused than ever, but Link’s mom is nodding, her smile getting wider as I continue. She has the same dent in her cheek that Link does.

  “We can channel those resources as we kick off the hunt for a donor for Link. Start a social media campaign, do a TV spot or three. I mean, I’ll help however I can, even if you don’t want me on the case.”

  Professor Radcliffe is about to open his mouth. Another zillion questions, I’m sure.

  But Link’s mom gets there first. “I think it’s a great idea. We need to use every resource we can find. And Saira, your celebrity status, at least in the medical community, might just give us the edge we need.”

  We beam at each other for a second.

  Then she says, “Now we just need to convince Link.”

  * * *

  I’m showered, changed, and waiting for Vish to pick me up so we can go see the new Shah Rukh Khan thriller. He’s late, naturally, and Cho is on night call, so he’s grumbling around the intern lounge, waiting for something to happen and generally being a nuisance. He’s been lounging on the couch, his laptop open, perusing Grubhub for dinner options for the past hour.

  “So this boyfriend of yours know about your, uh, thing with the patient?”

  “It’s so not a thing. In fact, it’s absolutely the opposite of a thing.” It’s been eight hours since Link found out, and six since I floated my genius plan, as I like to call it. But I haven’t heard word from anyone—including Davis, thank gods—about it since then. And my mom hasn’t come roaring in and torn me to shreds, which 100 percent means she doesn’t know. Yet. I hope it stays that way. But somehow I doubt it.

  “You doll up for the cancer kid but not the boyfriend?” Cho’s smirking, and it makes me want to smack him. “What happened to that flowery thing from before?”

  I look down at my clothes. Capris and a raggedy old T-shirt from the Shah Rukh show Vish and I went to when we were twelve. Super appropriate. “He likes me the way I am,” I say with a shrug. “And he would definitely approve of this T-shirt. It’s sentimental.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say. I think about plopping down on the couch to wait some more. My feet are itchy again, though. I kind of know where they want to take me. And I don’t have the power to stop them. I weave through the halls, waving to patients and nurses in a daze, and find myself right back where it all started. The patient lounge.

  I don’t even have to open the door to know he’s in there. I can hear the music, plaintive, lonely, lovely, as he strums his guitar, and the hitch in his voice as he tries to lift himself above the pain.

  I lean against the door gently, trying not to give myself away as I peer through the small gap between the layers of paper (and grime) that cover the window.

  He’s sitting on a stool by the window, the last rays of sunlight and dust swirling, just like they did that first day. He’s in hospital-issue sweats, and the IV bag has followed him here on a cart, constant company, just like it was for Harper in those later days. It makes my stomach jump in this odd, jittery way, familiar and excruciating. There was nothing I could do for Harper then, but that doesn’t have to be the case this time. Not with Link. I can help him, I know I can. I just have to convince him to let me.

  And maybe, just maybe, I know how.

  Dear Link,

  I’m the ass. I admit it.

  So hear me out. Please?

  Meet me here in the patient lounge, Monday, 4 p.m.

  Worth your while. I promise.

  Saira

  CHAPTER 16

  “Can you drive me to Lizzie’s?” I say as soon as I climb into Vish’s car.

  “Well, hello to you, too,” he grumbles. “And I thought we were going to the movies? I bought the tickets.”

  “It’s urgent.” I feel guilty. I mean, it’s Shah Rukh Khan. “I’ll get us tickets for the eleven p.m.” He opens his mouth to speak. “I’ll convince Papa. Promise.”

  “All right,” he says, shrugging as he starts the engine. “What’s this about?”

  I turn to look at him as he pulls out of the parking lot, then take a deep breath.

  “Do you think we should tell her?”

  He hits the brakes. Hard. “Why would we do that?”

  He’s clearly not ready. I’m going to have to tread carefully.

  “You remember that guy?”

  “What guy?” A horn honks behind us. He starts driving again, but everything about him is tense now.

  “The one I showed you. On my phone the other day.”

  “Your patient? The rock-star wannabe?” He’s trying to focus on the road, but also keeps glancing my way, trying to read me. It’s making me nervous. I put a hand on his knee, but he shifts, tense. “What about him?”

  “So I need to help him.”

  “Yeah, you’re his doctor.”

  “I’m not. They took me off his case. But I can still help.”

  “How?”

  “He needs a bone marrow donor. And one of the best ways to find one will be via media. And social media.”

  It’s like a light bulb goes off, and I can see his shoulders slump back, his breathing go easy again. “Oh, of course. That’s perfect. She can totally do that.” But the bulb flickers. “What does that have to do with me? With us?” He peers over at me, pausing at a red light, trying to catch my eye, to unravel what I’m saying. “Wait. You.”

  I’m sweating now—my palms, my neck, my back slick—even though the AC’s blasting.

  “Oh, Guddi,” he says, his face falling a bit. But he recovers quickly. “You like him.”

  I nod, but I don’t know if he notices it, because his foot is on the gas now, and we’re moving too fast, pulling onto Lizzie’s street.

  “She knows?”

  “Yeah. Well, sort of. But it’s not like I did anything.” And it’s not like this, us, is real anyway. Right? “And I mean, you already have a boyfriend.”

  “That’s not the point. It’s just—I mean, obviously it looks really bad. It looks like—”

  “I’m cheating.”

  He actually cracks a smile then, pulling into park, and rests his forehead on the steering wheel. He’s sweaty, too. “Yeah, which, of course, is ridiculous. But, Saira. Guddi. I—”

  “You’re not ready.”

  He looks at me again, and shakes his head. “Not yet.”

  “Okay. We’ll play it strictly professional.” I take a deep breath, my hand on the door handle, ready or not. “But just so you know: It’s gonna be weird.”

  He nods.

  “So, whatever I say, just back me up.”

  * * *

  Lizzie’s in her pj’s when she answers the door. Weird. No plans on a Friday night? She looks shocked to see us. And that makes me feel so much worse. Because we were totally going to go to the movies—Shah Rukh Khan, no less—without her. Again.

  “What are you guys doing here?” The house is quiet, which means her mom is out.

  “Need your help.”

  She looks alarmed but opens the door wide, and we walk right in.

  It’s been a while since I’ve been to Lizzie’s. She always came to my house, instead of the other way around, but when her parents split, her mom—a literature professor at Princeton—moved them to a smaller house closer to campus. She stayed in the same school, but she wasn’t just a few blocks away anymore. We made it work. In fact, for a while, she slept over my house a few times a week. Until middle school, anyway. And, well, the genius track for me.

  “What’s going on?” She looks from me to Vish and back again, worried. “Is Dadi okay?”

  Dadi? Why would she think that?

  “Of course,” I say, too abrupt. “She’s fine.” I take a deep breath, then decide to sit first. Vish settles in next to me, and I follow Lizzie’s gaze from the couch to the kitchen, wondering if she should offer something. “We’re fine. We’re all fine. Except. Remember that kid?”

  “What kid?�
��

  “Link. The guy from the mall.”

  Her eyes light up for a second, but she tempers that fast, looking at Vish. “Yeah. The guy who did Rock Star Boot Camp. The cancer kid.”

  Vish raises his eyebrows, his mouth doing a weird pursing thing. Like he’s afraid of what I might say. Of what Lizzie might think. But he’s got nothing to worry about.

  “Yeah. He’s sick again. And it’s bad this time.”

  “Oh,” she says, her face falling a little. “I mean, you said he probably was. So he’s officially your patient now?”

  “Yeah, sort of. I mean he’s admitted. But not my patient. Technically.” I take a deep breath. “And that’s why I need your help.”

  “Do you think I might be a match?” she says, tentative, not quite sure how she feels about that.

  “No. Maybe. It definitely doesn’t hurt to get tested. But I thought you could help in another way.”

  Her eyes are on Vish now, waiting for his reaction, his worry or approval. Waiting to take her cue from him. Instead of me. I guess I really would be the bad guy in this scenario. Even though I haven’t done anything wrong. Right?

  “So the hospital is gearing up this campaign. To find a match. I mean, it’s a long shot. A really long shot, given his background. But the key thing is to get the word out, to get the story out, to make people want to help him.”

  She nods, still confused. What does that have to do with her?

  “So I thought, maybe, you could like do some social media for him. Set up an account across on all the platforms. Build a following. Like yours. Like mine.”

  She’s still looking at Vish, unsure. Is she betraying him by helping Link. By helping me? He nods. “He needs our help. And you rock at this.”

  “Like, he has a few followers on everything—@linkradrocks—but it needs to be more. It needs to go big. So we can use my accounts. And blow out his.” She opens her mouth to speak, but I plow forward. “We can get access. His mom’s on board.”

  “His life depends on it,” Vish says, his voice all thick and nasal. He takes my hand. “We have to do what we can.”

  “And technically, I can’t,” I say. “I’m not on the case. But I told them that I could help. That you could help. It has to be sort of officially unofficial. Though they’d pay you, probably.” Or I could.

  “And you’re cool with this?” she asks Vish, which annoys me. But I get it. Sort of.

  “Why wouldn’t I be cool with it?” he says. “He’s a patient. He needs help. We can help.”

  She nods, and I can see the wheels in her head turning already. “Yeah, I think I know how to do this. Video is key,” she says, looking right at Vish. “Because he’s got a look. And already the sympathy thing is working for him.” She pauses, struck by something. “But you know what would really help? Rock Star Boot Camp.”

  Of course. That’s it. But how do we make that happen, now that he’s in the hospital?

  I frown. “Yeah. I don’t know if that’s possible now. But we’ll figure it out.”

  “Well,” Liz Biz says, “count me in. #TeamLink.”

  “Awesome, cool. Amazing,” Vish says, standing. “Now, Lizzie—you down for some Shah Rukh Khan? Complete with subtitles?”

  CHAPTER 17

  Monday morning dawns hot and sweaty. And while all I can think about is Link, I’ve got a lot on my to-do list. Starting with Alina and the money situation.

  I’ve been at the hospital now for nearly a month, but I still haven’t stopped on the top floor to see Dr. Charles—the man who was Harper’s primary oncologist, and my mentor on the path to medicine. He’s the one who actually heard me out when I first diagnosed her black-and-blues as something more than your usual bruises, then helped me comb through those big fat medical encyclopedias to pinpoint it was cancer. He’s the one that wrote recommendations for me for the Hopkins’ Genius Program, then Princeton, then UMDNJ. His word weighed heavily on my landing the internship here at Princeton Presbyterian—which will never cease to annoy Davis. Essentially: Without his guidance, I’d still be your average high school junior, fretting about SATs and junior prom. But I’m not. And I have him to thank for it.

  Which is why this conversation is not going to be easy. But I have to do something about Alina’s insurance, and I think it’s better to go to the source than have Davis cut me off at the knees. A patient’s life is at stake here. I have to do what I have to do.

  I knock on Charles’s door once, twice, three times, fast.

  “Come on in, Saira!” Charles stands as I enter his office, and waves me over for a hug. He looks far older than the last time I saw him, his hair fully gray instead of its former salt-and-pepper, and face far more wrinkled than I remember. “Or should I say, Dr. Sehgal!”

  “You should, though Davis won’t.”

  Charles laughs, and it transforms him into the man I remember—usually so stoic and serious, but just a giant teddy bear when he was around kids. Mom always said that’s what made him the best pediatric oncologist—he didn’t seem cold and calculating while delivering often devastating prognoses. Which is critical when you’re talking about the lives of children. “Davis doesn’t make it easy,” he says. “But with good reason. We want only the best of the best here at Princeton Presbyterian. That has to be earned.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m trying. But she seems to have it out for me in any case.”

  Charles grins. “Believe it or not, you remind me of her when she was younger.”

  “Decidedly not,” I say. Yeah right.

  “Trust me, Saira. You’ll do just fine.”

  “If you say so. Anyway, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “A patient, so I’ve heard.” Uh-oh. What has he heard?

  “Yes, a patient. Alina Plotkin.”

  “Plotkin. Ah yes, Davis did mention her. The situation seems pretty dire.”

  “Yeah, the insurance has dropped them, which means that we can’t proceed with treatment. But it’s critical that we not stop right now. She needs all the support she can get, and when I talked to the insurance company, they were totally unreasonable. They said that Davis—”

  “I’m sure Davis is doing the best she can in this situation. We have the best intentions for all of our patients, of course, and I’d hate for you—or anyone—to think that wasn’t the case. But these days, the way things work, sometimes it’s out of our hands.”

  I want to speak but I’m too busy lifting my jaw up off the floor. The Dr. Charles I knew would never dismiss a patient’s situation that way—especially not one in crisis. He reads the expression on my face, reaches across the desk, and takes my hand, trying to soothe me. But I pull it away.

  “Understand this, Dr. Sehgal: We are doing our best. Sometimes situations are out of our control. Dr. Davis knows this case and this scenario intimately, and she will ultimately make the right decisions for both the patient and the hospital. It’s not up to you—or me—to second-guess her thinking. This is what she’s paid to do, and she’s an expert.”

  “But Alina’s family—”

  “Will get through it. There are other resources available. St. Jude’s for one. Or private or crowdsourced funding. This is not a rare situation in medicine these days, unfortunately, and a counselor here at the hospital has been in touch with the Plotkins to provide some guidance. They are already behind on their bills, the insurance has dropped them, and they need to regroup and rethink their strategy. This is the reality for many cancer patients—and others—these days. But you need to focus on what you’re here for, and that is to learn the process of treating the disease. Of course, the family’s situation is tied to the outcomes here, but there is a dedicated staff to handle these matters, and it is not your place to interfere in these intimate family matters.” He clears his throat. “Here or elsewhere.”

  I jump. I wonder what he knows, what he’s heard—and who told him. If he knows, Davis must know, and my mom, too. But I push forward, because I have to do
something, anything, to help Alina.

  “But—”

  “You know, Saira, one of the things I’ve always admired about you is your passion. But you are very young. If you want to be taken seriously in this world, in the medical community, then you must learn to balance the passion with the practical, and to keep it in check when necessary.”

  He stands, my cue to follow him to the door. “Now, if you will, I have a meeting at ten—and I understand that you do, too.” He opens the door, and I step through it, turning to look back at him. “I do think you can thrive here. You may be young and idealistic, but you’re very smart, and you have a keen sense of responsibility. But the trick to a long career in medicine is to learn how to compartmentalize. You won’t survive without doing so. I know you have it in you.”

  As he shuts the door and I start to walk away, I wonder if I do. I need to calm down. I need to compose myself. But my heart is racing, and I’m not sure where to put the anger. If I head to the intern lounge now, Cho will be the recipient of my wrath, this much I know. But if I want to help Link, I’ve got to stay on his good side.

  I have twenty minutes before the meeting, so I head to my mom’s office to grab a cup of chai. I knock a few times, but she doesn’t seem to be around, so I let myself in.

  My mother’s office is small and cluttered—shelves full of old patient files that she insists on holding on to even though the hospital staff went to the electronic record-keeping system this summer. There’s a large, bulky faux-wood desk, and two pleather chairs for patients to sit in during consults. Her chair, behind the desk, is a fancy peacock-blue velvet armchair—completely out of place here, but she insisted on buying it when she saw it. “One day, it’ll go in my library,” she said. She reads everything, from medical journals to pulp novels in Hindi to bodice rippers. “It’s my escape,” she always says.